


deliriously happy

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [35]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9858899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “We need to talk,” Georgie repeats. “I can’t deal with this, okay, I can’t deal with stressing myself out about the playoffs and you at the same time, I feel sick to my fucking stomach every morning knowing what’s going to come, and I can’t deal, Robbie.”“Poor Georgie,” Robbie says.“You can’t be enjoying it either,” Georgie says.





	

Robbie sits on his couch. He waits. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, or how long he’ll keep at it if Georgie doesn’t show. It feels like time’s stilled, anyway, that he’s become a stationary object. The world is moving and he’s still except for the ugly tattoo of his heart beating too fast in his chest, and that’s fine.

He jumps when he hears a knock, goes even more still than before when the door opens, closes with a click behind itself Robbie wouldn’t hear if he wasn’t straining to.

“Robbie?” Georgie asks, and Robbie would answer, but —

Georgie comes into the living room after a minute anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

“Come to punch me?” Robbie asks, not looking at him.

“No,” Georgie says.

“Come to fuck me?” Robbie asks.

“No,” Georgie repeats. 

“You can get out, then,” Robbie says flatly.

“Yeah, no,” Georgie says, sardonic, and Robbie looks up at him sharply.

“The fuck are you here for then, anyway?” Robbie asks him.

“I didn’t think it’d be a good idea for you to be alone right now, so,” Georgie says.

“And _you’re_ the answer?” Robbie asks.

“I thought you’d prefer me coming over to me asking Quincy to,” Georgie says.

“What fucking right—” Robbie starts.

“What fucking right do _you_ have?” Georgie says. “What do you think Quincy would say if I told him what you pulled today? I don’t know the guy like you do, maybe you can tell me.”

Robbie knows it’s a tactic, but he blanches anyway, because he does know Quincy, and if he knew about the check, and the story behind it, Robbie would have a screaming lumberjack in his apartment, and Quincy doesn’t scream easy. Robbie’s seen it less than a handful of times off the ice, and it froze the blood in his veins each time, even though it’s never been at him, and every time it was well-deserved.

“Me or Quincy,” Georgie says.

“That’s fucking blackmail,” Robbie says.

“No, it’s an option,” Georgie says.

“Stay, then,” Robbie says. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Georgie sits down on the couch, far enough that Robbie isn’t touching him, close enough that Robbie can feel the heat of him. Robbie wants to lambaste him for that, but he’s sitting in the middle of the couch, and there isn’t anywhere else to sit. He can feel Georgie’s eyes on him like physical weight, unwavering.

“What,” Robbie says.

“Are you okay?” Georgie asks.

Robbie laughs. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you told me I could punch you, so,” Georgie says.

“You told me you _wanted_ to punch me,” Robbie says.

“I can’t imagine why,” Georgie says.

“Why are you here,” Robbie says.

“I told you,” Georgie says.

“You gave a shit reason,” Robbie says.

Georgie doesn’t say anything. “We’ve looked good,” he says, casually. “I mean, we’re tied, but they had the advantage, and our ice time’s been ticking—”

“Shut the fuck up, Georgie,” Robbie says tiredly. “Why are you here?”

“We need to talk,” Georgie says.

“Last time we talked you walked out the fucking door,” Robbie says.

“Made a change from you doing it,” Georgie mutters.

“Go fuck yourself,” Robbie says. “Fuck, go ahead and call Quincy, tell him what a fuck up I’ve been, I don’t care.”

He does, though, and he looks over at Georgie to check if he’s pulled his phone out. He hasn’t. 

“What do you _want_?” he asks.

“We need to talk,” Georgie repeats. “I can’t deal with this, okay, I can’t deal with stressing myself out about the playoffs and you at the same time, I feel sick to my fucking stomach every morning knowing what’s going to come, and I can’t _deal_ , Robbie.”

“Poor Georgie,” Robbie says.

“You can’t be enjoying it either,” Georgie says.

“And talking’s going to make such a big difference?” Robbie asks. “Going to make it all better?”

“How much worse can it get?” Georgie asks.

“That a rhetorical question, Georgie?” Robbie asks.

“Fuck, I hope so,” Georgie says.

“What are we talking about?” Robbie asks.

“Was _that_ a rhetorical question?” Georgie asks, and. Yeah. It was.

Robbie scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t want to know, but he can’t help asking. “Five, you said,” he says. “How many of them were guys?”

“None,” Georgie says, and Robbie doesn’t know why he feels relieved. It’s not like it makes a fucking difference, makes it any less… _less_ , but. Still. Relieved. 

“First time you did it?” Robbie asks.

“My birthday,” Georgie whispers.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Georgie,” Robbie says. They were on the phone for a half-hour that night. Georgie had even left the bar his teammates had taken him to, stood outside in the cold, complaining about the wind, and every time Robbie told him to get his ass inside, Georgie said he’d rather stay on the phone.

And then apparently he’d gone back in and gotten his hands on some snatch while Robbie slept all snug in his bed, missing him like burning.

“Why?” Robbie asks, finally, and it comes out plaintive, pathetic.

“I was lonely,” Georgie says. “I was so—”

“Don’t fucking—” Robbie starts.

“I was _lonely_!” Georgie shouts, and Robbie quiets, because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Georgie reach that volume off the ice. “I was so fucking lonely, and the person I missed more than anyone kept brushing it off when I told him! ‘Oh, sorry NHL hotshot’, ‘You’re in fucking California and it snowed half a foot here, sorry I’m not crying for you’ ‘Dude I saw that pic, you’re hanging out with a Norris Trophy winner, quit bitching’.”

“I—” Robbie says, momentarily at a loss for words, before he regathers himself. “That’s not a fucking excuse. What, fuck the loneliness away?”

“I’m not making excuses, I am fucking _telling you the answer to what you asked me_ ,” Georgie bites out. “So fucking listen for once in your goddamned life, you self-centered _asshole_.”

“I don’t need this bullshit from you,” Robbie says, moving to stand.

“Of course not,” Georgie says. “So you’re going to walk away like a fucking coward again.”

Robbie can’t — Robbie can’t fucking leave. It’s his place, for one, and more than that, Robbie’s never been able to back down from anything that resembles a challenge, which Georgie fucking _knows_ , that manipulative son of a bitch.

“You want to talk so bad, talk,” Robbie says. “But I’m not going to believe a fucking word that comes out of your mouth, you slimy bullshit artist.”

“How many times did I tell you I wasn’t happy there?” Georgie asks. “Seriously, how many?”

Every call from Georgie had a few constants. Georgie loved him. Georgie missed him, missed BU. It was weird being one of the only new guys on the roster. Georgie felt overwhelmed.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know you weren’t just bitching?” Robbie asks. “Fuck, I bitched about my environmental economics class every fucking—”

“I had no friends there,” Georgie says flatly. “Later, maybe, but not at first. They needed me to be good, and I sucked. The more I tried not to suck, the worse I sucked, and the harder I tried, and it just — it never got better. I didn’t get better. I was supposed to be franchise, and I was a liability taking a spot away from someone who deserved it more. They didn’t like me. They didn’t want me there. _I_ didn’t want me there.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Robbie says, but he did. Never as bluntly as right now, but. He did.

“I told you every time, and you didn’t care,” Georgie says. “Because how could you be mad at me for leaving you behind if I hated every minute of it?”

“I was _happy_ for you,” Robbie says. 

“Then you weren’t listening to a single fucking word I said,” Georgie says. “I was miserable, and I was lonely, and I’m not making excuses, okay. I know it was fucked up. I know I fucked up. But I fucking missed you. I missed playing with you, and I missed sleeping beside you, and I missed having a boyfriend who didn’t fucking resent me for getting called up.”

“I didn’t resent you,” Robbie says. 

“Yes you did,” Georgie says.

Robbie chews his lip. “I didn’t mean to,” he says.

“I resented you too,” Georgie says.

“For _what_?” Robbie asks. “What the fuck did—”

“You were playing awesome,” Georgie says. “You didn’t need me like I needed you, clearly, because I was fucking sucking, and you were just as good as you were without me. You were playing awesome, and you were having fun, like, you’d bitch about classes but you’d knock them out of the park too, and I missed you every fucking second but you seemed to be doing just fine without me.”

“Oh, like you didn’t know I missed you,” Robbie snaps.

“Why would I know that?” Georgie asks. “The only time you ever said it was if I said it first.”

“Why didn’t you ever say this shit?” Robbie asks.

“I tried!” Georgie says. “And every time I did you’d shut me down, so what point was there. I mentioned anything about how I was jealous of how well you were doing, and you’d turn it around and tell me I couldn’t be, like hitting the NHL meant I couldn’t want anything else ever, like me being anything but deliriously happy was stupid and ungrateful. So, three years in, Robbie, you deliriously happy right now?”

“No,” Robbie mumbles.

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “Me either.”

Robbie rubs his face. “You want a drink or something?” he asks.

“No,” Georgie says. “I just kind of…want to get through this.”

“No way out but through?” Robbie asks.

“Pretty much,” Georgie says.

“How much is there left to say?” Robbie asks.

“A lot,” Georgie says softly.

Robbie shuts his eyes.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. Talk.”

“You know, I was happy when they told me I got traded to the Caps,” Georgie says. 

“Right,” Robbie says.

“Well, not happy,” Georgie says. “Since Barons management pretty much flat out acted like I was garbage they were happy to get rid of.”

Robbie’s half tempted to tell him he _is_ garbage, but this is about hockey, and Georgie at his best is a fucking revelation. Georgie at his best leaves Robbie breathless.

“I was happy I was going to see you,” Georgie says. “Or, you’re right. Not happy. Hopeful, I guess.”

“Thought we’d live happily ever after?” Robbie sneers.

“No,” Georgie says. “I just. Missed you. I still miss you. I miss you all the fucking time.”

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Robbie says. “But I’m here all the fucking time. Kind of in the job description.”

“Yeah, but you’re not,” Georgie says. “This isn’t you.”

“It _is_ me,” Robbie says. “I’m not sure how the fuck you still don’t get that.”

“That’s my fault, isn’t it,” Georgie says. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Robbie asks. “That I was apparently so fucking delicate and fucking weak all it took was my boyfriend sticking his dick into other people to fuck me up?”

“I’m sorry,” Georgie repeats. “And can you stop saying that shit about yourself?”

“Why, would it make you feel better?” Robbie asks.

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “And you too, probably.”

“Don’t act like you—” 

“Know you?” Georgie asks. “Christ, Robbie. I was obsessed with figuring you out. You were my favorite fucking subject. Maybe I don’t know you the same way now, but stop acting like I don’t know you.”

“Figured me out so well you thought I’d be cool with you cheating?” Robbie asks. “That I’d shrug and go ‘hey that’s how it goes’ and we’d be fucking fine? That’s how well you knew me? Are we even _talking_ about the same person?”

Georgie’s quiet. “I knew you wouldn’t be,” he says.

“You just hoped I wouldn’t find out,” Robbie says.

Georgie swallows. “Yeah,” he manages. “Pretty much.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Robbie says.

“I know,” Georgie says.

“I fucking hate you,” Robbie says.

“I know that too,” Georgie says. “You haven’t exactly hidden it.”

A laugh bubbles out of Robbie, choked and bitter.

“I need a drink,” Robbie says. “Sure you don’t want one?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Georgie says.

Robbie stumbles to the kitchen, stares into the fridge. It’s barely got anything worth eating, but there’s no shortage of drinks. There are some beers in the bottom, but it’s barely fucking afternoon, and they’re in the dogfight of the playoffs right now, which is not exactly an ideal time for day drinking. Still, he’s practically aching with how badly he wants one right now.

He stays there long enough that Georgie’s going to come looking for him if he keeps it up, that his father would yell at him for letting the cold air out. He rests his head against the cool metal of the freezer door, exhales, his breath fogging up the steel. 

“Robbie?” Georgie says, and Robbie turns his head to look at him, standing in the doorway, fingers of his right hand curled around the frame. His knuckles are red, chapped. He hasn’t fought anyone lately, so Robbie doesn’t know where that came from, though he doesn’t know where a good chunk of the bruises and scrapes on his own body come from either, half the time. Hockey. It fucking destroys you, more or less, but you always come back for more. “Do you need—”

Robbie has no idea what he needs.

“Do you need me to go?” Georgie asks quietly.

Robbie turns back to the fridge. “Water or Gatorade?” he asks.

“Whatever you’re having,” Georgie repeats.

“Okay,” Robbie says. “Okay.”


End file.
